


Wring out the Old Times, Bring on the New

by drtempledragon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:04:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drtempledragon/pseuds/drtempledragon
Summary: With the TARDIS out of action, the newly regenerated Doctor spends Christmas and New Year with the Tyler extended family. Normally he’d be itching to travel to new places, but Rose teaches him a valuable lesson about tradition and honour whilst she learns the importance of moving on.Originally posted on LiveJournal as part of the ten_n_tyler Secret Santa 2007, written for amandarex. I managed to incorporate all six prompts, as follows: Ten/Rose romance with or without plot; Doctor in a 'fish out of water' situation; Chaucer (before he wrote the Canterbury Tales); Rose knocked unconscious; staging an argument to distract or confuse; New Year's Eve in Times Square.





	Wring out the Old Times, Bring on the New

_Sunday December 31st 2006, London, Earth, Solar System_

It was as if the Doctor knew when Jackie had unlocked the fridge to prepare breakfast, even though his ship was parked well out of (human) earshot. Just as the bacon hit the frying pan, the Doctor’s fingers tapped on the door to the flat. She sighed. At least he wasn’t just letting himself in anymore; that was the last time she was leaving her bedroom in just her nightshirt and no make-up. Muttering, she wrapped the dressing gown tighter around herself and shuffled the short distance to the front door, adding to the mental checklist of how much he would have to make up to her.

The Doctor was his fully dressed, unearthly cheery morning self. He beamed at her, “Good morning, Jackie!” He breezed into the living space after Jackie had stepped to one side to let him past. “Another chilly day; the Sycorax ash is still on the ground. There are some children still trying to make snow-skulls, like they saw on the news. Well, I should say ash-skulls.” He seemed to realise Jackie was staring at him, unenthused. He changed the subject with a confident smile, “Is that bacon and tea and toast for breakfast?”

Jackie rolled her eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. The Doctor plonked himself onto the cream-coloured sofa and pulled out his tortie reading glasses, but soon became bored with the magazines he’d already read three times yesterday. Jackie had refused to believe that the 67-year-old Spanish woman, who had given birth to twins in Barcelona and thus become the oldest birth mother, was an alien. Just as he had started rearranging the Christmas tree decorations to a mathematical algorithm, there was an unexpected sound of rustling blankets – the ones hanging in Rose’s bedroom doorway. It had caught Jackie’s attention, too.  
Rose shuffled out of her room rubbing sleep from her eyes. She yawned widely, but abruptly closed her mouth upon seeing the Doctor. She smiled in an almost bashful way at him, and checked her thick pyjamas were buttoned fully.

“Morning!” the Doctor chirped. He enthusiastically declared, “Morning is the best part of the day. All that potential, just waiting to be discovered.”  
Rose scoffed slightly, “Not when you’re going to be awake until past midnight for the New Year.”

Jackie came out of the kitchen, pecked Rose on the cheek and handed her a mug of tea. Following her soft attentions to her daughter, Jackie turned tack to the Doctor. She pointedly marked her speech with an accusatory inflection, “I think we should go somewhere fancy for New Year, since the London Eye and Big Ben are out of commission for the fireworks here.” Before handing the Doctor his mug of tea she stated, “I’ve always fancied Times Square, but couldn’t afford it. Now we’ve got a machine that can travel anywhere, for free.”

Although encouraged by Rose’s hopeful smile at Jackie’s words, the Doctor was slightly put out at some unfortunate memories of the place from relatively not long ago, though it was two lifetimes for him. “I’ve already been, for the Millennium. _Your_ Millennium, I should say. Didn’t see what all the bother was; a group of scientists inside a huge glass building watching a ball drop. No need to go again.”

Rose and Jackie exchanged confused looks, before Rose drowsily pointed out, “Times Square isn’t indoors.” She tried not to sound patronising as she continued, “New Year is in Times Square, New York. Huge fireworks display, where everyone can go for free.”

“New York isn’t in California at this time?” the Doctor asked in earnest. Rose gave him a sleepy, pitying smile, at which point he found distraction in his tea mug. He babbled, “Well, close enough. Once you’ve seen one time ball drop, you’ve seen them all. I was at Greenwich in 1833, 1 o’clock, on the dot; vital for all the ships’ timekeepers back then.” He was on a roll, “New Year doesn’t mark anything now; there’s no solstice or equinox or moon phase. It’s not like you don’t all have watches.”

Subdued, Jackie returned to the sizzling bacon, resigning herself to the fact she wasn’t going anywhere special for New Year, save for the journeys her alcohol fuelled imaginings went on.

Rose was left to explain, “It’s tradition, Doctor. It’s special because we all agree to do it at the same time. It’s like what my English teacher said about Christmas; Jesus was probably born in early April because Mary and Joseph went home for the new tax year. But we all remember and celebrate Christmas on December 25th.”

Rose brushed past the Doctor and sat on the sofa, bringing her feet up and tucking them underneath her. The Doctor sat down next to her, leaving a small space between them, as he pondered her thoughts. “Tradition, eh? Like Christmas carols; groups of people going around spreading goodwill to all mankind, in the freezing cold because that’s what they’ve always done.” His words evoked a small smile from her. He sipped his tea and cleared his throat, “Amazing Grace – always loved that song.”

Likewise, Rose sipped her tea and looked at the Christmas tree with its perhaps bare underside; the holiday was gaining importance since she’d been out of the TARDIS for a week or so and living a normal life. She noted with amusement the Doctor’s rearrangements of the ornaments, “Like it’s traditional in this house to decorate the tree haphazardly with mismatched decorations, as we’ve still got some from when I was born.” Rose closed her eyes and appreciated the moment more, given she had spent her last Christmas on Earth away from home.

As Rose opened her eyes, she thought some more on the Doctor’s defence of not wanting to going to Times Square. She thought it was more to do with his ship; after all, the easier argument would have been her current inability to fly beyond the estate. Though Rose was grateful to be spending time with her Mother, the Doctor was hardly settled here with the domestics. Unless it was her Mother that was the problem, regardless of the location.

Still, she wanted to ask, “How’s the TARDIS?” Her question certainly had his attention, and she became a little shy under his gaze. “I can’t believe she’s so damaged from you flying her after you,” she gestured at him up and down with her hand, “you know, changed.”

The conversation the Doctor had so skilfully avoided, Rose had managed to find. Rose seemed sincere in her words; no memories of the real damage of ripping out the TARDIS’ heart flickered in her eyes. He was quiet and careful with his choice of words as he reminded her, “She was in a fight with the Daleks.” Before Rose had chance to delve into the forbidden past, he brought things jovially to the present, “Though it pains me, mostly in the stomach, I don’t want to tax her with superfluous tasks like kitchen maintenance.”

As if on cue, Jackie appeared with plates of bacon sandwiches, handing them to Rose and the Doctor before she drew the curtains back from the plastic sheeted window frames. Gazing through the translucent material, she grumpily sniffed, “If it’s not working properly, if you went in it, no doubt you’d end up where there’s trouble.”

“Trouble’s just the bits in between,” Rose chimed in with a private joke that made the Doctor smirk.

***

Come the evening, the Doctor had been convinced to join in the New Year celebrations with Rose at her local park. Apparently, there was a chance of meeting Mickey and his friends once they were there, and there had been discussion about wearing fancy dress.

The Doctor had spent all afternoon in the TARDIS. Most of the time he was performing maintenance, but for the remaining period he had pondered Rose’s words about tradition. To him, while knowledgeable of it, the practice had been nothing special; just a hollow gesture to keep things the same, with little meaning besides. He was always moving on, never looking back; to do so he would only be reminded that things either never changed or decayed and died. Yet for Rose he had searched for a book long since forgotten, from when he was a different man. Even back then the book was still for the same woman, though this time there was an emotional purpose.

He rapped on the door to the Tyler flat with his spare hand, emulating the confidence of that morning yet feeling anything but. Fortunately it was Rose who answered the door. It was apparent Rose had decided against fancy dress, instead opting for dark coloured jogging bottoms and the red jumper her Mother had given her for Christmas.

“Oh! I wasn’t expecting you,” Rose was surprised. “I was going to come and meet you at the TARDIS.”

“ _Well_ ,” he over enunciated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I was thinking about what you said this morning, about tradition.” He paused. “So, I got you this.” On his final word, he brought his hand out from under his long fawn overcoat and handed Rose a leather bound parcel. “Merry Christmas. For six days ago.”

Rose stood silently for a moment looking at the object when she felt a cold draught pass over her socked feet. “Come in, before you let all the heat out.” She gestured with her head for him to enter. He did so, and Rose quickly shut the door behind him and followed him into the living room, never lifting her head from looking at the gift even though the Doctor was in full verse.

“I thought about giving you the satsuma; the one that defeated the Sycorax on Christmas Day. But your Mother’s friend had brought a bagful of them. Then I thought about letting it dry out, poking cloves in its skin and presenting it to Queen Elizabeth. The First one. She was a big fan of English literature and even went to see Shakespeare. I think he was more popular than the Queen’s Speech.” He stopped; acutely aware she hadn’t attempted to open his gift. “It is traditional to be present when you’re opening presents, isn’t it?” he asked nervously. “I remember your Mother and Mickey were there when you opened theirs.”

She looked up and smiled reassuringly at him, “It’s alright. It’s just a surprise, that’s all. You’ve never brought me a present before.”

He smiled, relieved, “A new start for a new year. Nearly new year.”

She pulled at the braided cord and it slipped off the bottom. Carefully Rose opened the leather cover to reveal sheets of old parchment embellished with black ink and gold gilding. She read the title, “The Romaunt of the Rose.” Her eyes went very wide with a mix of shock and excitement. Underneath the title was the signature of Chaucer, proving he had written the whole translation of the Roman de la Rose.

The Doctor was very still, trying to glean her full reaction, “Do you like it?”

Rose was shaking slightly with the knowledge of quite how old these pages must be. “My English teacher would kill to have this,” she remarked with a nervous laugh. A sudden thought struck her, “Is it the original? I mean, do you have to take it back?”

“Geoffrey was in the habit of making several complete copies before publishing the best one,” he said casually. “His French was a bit rusty, so he gave me this for helping with his translation.”

“You helped with the translation?” Rose was astounded that the Doctor would concern himself with translating a book about human courtship rituals, especially one where the personification of the man’s love was a play on her name.

As Rose thought back to her English GCSE, she remembered details of the book’s conception. “Hold on. Everyone says the middle translation was done by someone with a Northern accent.” Upon seeing the Doctor’s grin, her next words weren’t a question, “It was you!” She clarified, with a twinge of sadness, “My first you.”

Rose recalled one of the few instances she and her first Doctor were apart, when he would have had the time to make such a gesture – the eighteen seconds it took to change her mind and go travelling with him through time as well as space. Had he really made such an effort back then, to win her hand?

She shut the leather cover to conceal the pages. “I can’t keep it.”

“Oh.” The Doctor failed in completely hiding his disappointment. He looked down at his shoes and scuffed at the bits of plaster on the carpet with them.

She quickly explained, “Not here in the flat. If anybody found it… especially my Mum. She’d sell it just so we can pay to get the walls and windows fixed, instead of waiting for the council. It will be safe on the TARDIS, in my room, rather than behind the blankets here with drunken revellers.”

With her words the Doctor was able to look at her with a soft, proud smile. He would happily take the book from her and put it in her room on the TARDIS while she finished her preparations for the evening. While he was by his wardrobe, he might even change his tie just for the occasion.

***

It was a clear night, and the orange glow from the surrounding street lights was barely visible within the local park. Bits of ice had formed where the path had been gritted and frozen again with the intermittent ash fall. It was crowded, with small children wearing human skull masks climbing on the playground apparatus to get a better view of the small fireworks display and the old TV plugged into the food vendor’s wagon. Most of the adults huddled around the bonfire away from the chill air.

Rose had added to her afternoon attire, which now included knitted wrist sleeves, a black, fur trimmed jacket and matching boots. The Doctor had changed his tie from a plain brown to one with blue, rounded boxes on a brown background. Rose was much more interested in his overcoat, and often leaned into him during lulls in the fireworks when the absence of light made things seem colder. She was happy to be informed what metals made the different colours in the fireworks as long as her hands could be wrapped in his, which although colder than her were relatively warm in comparison to the night air. Rose could have sworn he was tracing the chemical symbols in her palm as he explained.

Rose was amazed by how many people recognised her, and how many of them seemed to not notice the Doctor when they weren’t holding hands. He would get the odd look, a question as to why he hadn’t buttoned up his coat that would often be laughed away by the assumption he was one of the A-positive people up on the rooftops on Christmas Day just in his pyjamas so didn’t feel the cold.

Rose was forgiven for missing a lot of her friends’ twentieth birthday parties; most of them thought it was cool to run away to travel the world, though postcards would have been nice from the places Rose gave false accounts of. The rumours about Mickey and her absence had seemingly been forgotten now she was seen to be safe and well. Amidst the familiar park and people, and home traditions, Rose had almost forgotten where she had really been away.

It was ten minutes to midnight, and music had replaced fireworks in the anticipation of the countdown. The Doctor had disappeared to get more drinks from the vendor. Rose felt a sharp object pushed into her back and was momentarily perturbed, until she heard the familiar chuckle of Mickey. She turned around to see he was dressed in an army soldier costume, complete with a mock machine gun and green war paint. Understandably she backed away from his attempted hug, slipping a little on the ice as she did so. Rose was still amused by Mickey’s appearance, though.

Mickey gestured at her attire with his toy gun, “Thought you were going to dress up?”

“Nah,” Rose replied nonchalantly, pulling her jacket higher up her neck. “Too cold.”

Mickey seemed a little disheartened that she hadn’t joined in with him, but then noticed something. “No Doctor?” he asked a little more excitedly than his bravado posture would have liked.

“He’s just gone to get more drinks, and probably food. Bottomless pit that he is now,” Rose explained with an amused tone, which gave way to a lull in conversation as Rose looked over the crowd, searching but to no avail. She prompted another conversation, “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s trying his luck with some girls, hoping his Police officer outfit’s going to help him _cop out_ at midnight.”

After Rose rolled her eyes at his words, Mickey unsubtly hinted in Rose’s direction with his final sentiment of midnight activities. But Rose’s thoughts were of the Doctor. She sighed; despite her Christmas present, given his naivety about modern human traditions and his apparent lack of sexuality, she doubted the Doctor had even considered how to bring in the New Year, or even if he’d be back from the vendor in time to celebrate it with her.

But then Rose wished for the Doctor’s presence for a wholly different reason.

“Hello, Petal,” came the raspy voice from Rose’s past. It was a stark reminder of how she’d spent her last Christmas; away from friends, away from Mickey and her Mother, to take her place in the bed of Jimmy Stone.

“I thought you were in prison,” Rose managed to say. He stood before her, still as fit and pretty as memory served: darkened blue eyes, short blond hair and stubble-skin. He drew on his cigarette and blew the sweet smelling toxins above their heads. As the condensing smoke descended, it brought to the fore memories of his drug dealing past and how he used to treat her when he was high.

“I’ve done my time, all eighteen months,” Jimmy stated. It seemed like a badge of honour to him. “That hair dye rotting your brains or something? Can’t tell the time anymore.” As if to check the state of her head, Jimmy pushed his fingers into Rose’s hair. Rose was frozen to the spot with his drug induced roughness, and only started resisting when his touch became gentle as he brushed calloused fingers down her cheek. “There’s still a place in my band, No Hot Ashes, if you can sing for me. Just words, no clocks.”

Mickey had seen enough. It pained him to watch Rose slipping into the old act with Jimmy; never questioning him to keep his temper down, and struggling to justify his behaviour when there was no excuse. He could also see the distinctive outline of a police officer’s uniform. Plucking up courage, he challenged Jimmy, “Leave her alone.”

Jimmy looked over to Mickey with distaste and irritation, before turning his attentions back to Rose. “What are you still doing with Action Man?”

Determined to anger and argue, Mickey persisted, “W-What happened to Noosh?” Looking at Rose, Mickey steeled his resolve, “Did she get tired of the crack, Jimmy _Stoned_?” Seeing Jimmy’s irritation escalate, Mickey stepped forward, goading Jimmy into punching him with hands and voice, “Or are you better off with a noose?” 

“Mickey, don’t – “ Rose tried to intervene, finding action in empathising with another’s plight and trying to prevent an eruption of sparks. But it earned her a misplaced right hook to the face. Rose reeled from the blow, slipping on the ice but managing to stay upright. Jimmy was temporarily stunned at his own actions.  
“Drug dealing and punching women,” Mickey sounded smug, even if his distraction hadn’t meant to injure Rose. He maintained a bold attitude, to keep up the act and get Jimmy away from her. “I’m sure the coppers would like to see you again. Starting with that one over there.”

Suddenly gaining lucidity, Jimmy crouched down, tossed his cigarette and weaved his way through the crowds, in the opposite direction to Steve and his uniform. After a cursory glance at Rose to see she was at least still upright, Mickey set after him, determined to convince Jimmy of the mock threat. Rose was once again left standing alone.

***

Rose took a deep breath, intending to steel herself against the pain. Instead, the heavy, chill air created more pain by inducing coughing. The Doctor appeared, presenting her with a styrofoam cup containing tea, though he hesitated in handing it over. Rose quickly quelled her exterior.

“You alright?” the Doctor enquired, noticing against the darkness there were tears glistening in her eyes. She seemed to be shaking too, and one side of her face was redder than the other; curiously it was the side furthest from the bonfire.

“Yeah,” she lied, although she was feeling better upon seeing him. “Nothing a cup of tea can’t fix,” she tried to make light of things, taking the drink from him. To hide away from the Doctor’s lingering gaze, she tried to find the television screen with hers. “Can’t be long now until the countdown.” As if on cue, somebody jumped up on a crate by the television, announcing it was a minute to midnight.

It hadn’t escaped the Doctor’s attention that she had taken a large gulp of scalding hot tea without flinching. Nor was she standing as close to him as she had been throughout the night. Rose seemed to be looking everywhere but at him, and was concentrating on the television screen like her sanity depended on it. Everybody else was grouping together, taking joy in the anticipation of those around them whilst just listening to the television. The Doctor held his hand out, offering it for Rose to hold; he wanted to celebrate the occasion with her in a way familiar to them. Instead, he had to catch her body as she slipped on the ice.

The Doctor quickly snaked his arm around her shoulders, to steady her as she slipped and became parallel to the frozen ground. He placed his cup in the puddle her discarded one had created and cradled her head, lifting it slightly to take the awkward strain from her neck. Rose was unresponsive: Her eyes were closed; there was no wet warmth within her hair to signify blood loss. Focusing on her breathing, he found it to be intermittent and weak, contrasting with the distant, recurring shouts of ‘ _Ten, nine_ …’ He deduced she had been knocked unconscious by whoever had indented their knuckles into her temple. No wonder Rose’s focus had been troubled, both from the impact and the perpetrator’s lingering presence.

As he gingerly brushed his thumb over the bruised tissue, he realised Rose’s condition was temporarily stable. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to assist her breathing; the cold would be seeping into her from the ground and he didn’t want to risk her going into deeper shock. He gently shifted her so her head and body were cradled on one arm, pinched her nose with his free hand and sealed her mouth with his. He waited until she had exhaled fully, and on the stroke of New Year he compelled air into her lungs. During really loud firework bangs, that had small children covering their ears, still she remained unmoved. As her name whispered across his mind, Rose flinched into consciousness, drawing breath from him.

The first thing Rose became aware of was an itchy, bunged up nose. Then came the warm taste of tea that didn’t need to be swallowed. It was entirely unexpected from the cold, heavy night air. When Rose opened her eyes, she wasn’t expecting to see the palm of the Doctor’s new hand, either, and her eyelashes brushing against his thumb caused him to move it away. The release on her nose caused her to inhale sharply through it. It was only through breathing in the Doctor’s close scent that Rose realised his lips were covering hers; he wasn’t being demanding, or applying any pressure she realised now she was gaining more awareness. She thought to ruffle his hair in encouragement, but doing so only resulted in his hand that, for once, was warmer than hers, taking her hand and resting it on her abdomen; she comprehended the truth of the situation. The Doctor brought his lips together and exhaled through his nose, passing moist air across her cheek. He lifted his head to look at her.

From Rose’s perspective, the Doctor’s head was framed by a myriad of fireworks. She couldn’t help a smile, “That’s not normally how people kiss to bring in the New Year.” She was rewarded with a lopsided grin from him, but it soon disappeared when she grimaced with the newfound throbbing pain in her temple. He resisted against her moving her hand to rub it, which was probably for the best given how wet her hand was from cold ashes.

“Who did this to you?” It wasn’t so much a question; judging by his guarded expression and tight jaw, it was more so a promise to rectify her injury by non-peaceful means. It reminded her of the end of the Sycorax fight, with no second chances. She knew Jimmy wouldn’t fight clean, and the Doctor wouldn’t understand his troubled nature.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rose shook her head a little, but soon regretted it. Instead she squirmed slightly in his secure embrace.

“Rose…” The Doctor said firmly, though with her agitation and averted gaze he added a plea when he said her name again.

With that, Rose stopped moving and looked directly at the Doctor, “It’s somewhere I’ve been before, and I don’t want to go again.”

Her cryptic and evasive answer had seemingly been picked up from him. He hid behind an unreadable expression whilst he searched Rose’s eyes for her emotions. Normally he could read her easily, but this time she remained guarded. He took the hint. As they held each other’s gazes, they conveyed an understanding and the tension dissipated.

Changing tack, the Doctor took in a motivating breath, braced his knees and merrily said, “Up you come.” His safe hands helped her to her unsteady feet, and once again she was content to lean against him, though he didn’t approve of the sodden wrist warmer dirtying his clean tie. As if sensing his thoughts, Rose peeled off the offending item and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

Rose looked up at the night sky; the fireworks here had finished, but there were other displays off in the distance. Rose thought about picking up the tea cup, but knew the pain in her head would amplify so decided against it. Around her, people were imbibed with alcohol and post-climatic festivities. It reminded her of what she couldn’t escape back at the flat. She rubbed her hands together and blew into them, trying to keep the chill at bay. “Mum’s going to go mental if she sees this.” Rose’s tone was solemn as she gestured to the side of her head.

The Doctor pulled out his glasses from his breast pocket. He caught the smile hiding behind Rose’s hands as he put them on to inspect her injuries with better lighting and orientation. “Keep still,” he gently instructed, as she shivered when he brushed her hair behind her ear to check the extent of the damage. Thankfully his initial check had been accurate, and it could be easily dealt with now Rose could walk. He pocketed his glasses and gently smiled, “It’s nothing the dermal regenerator in the TARDIS can’t handle. Your Mother need never know.”

Rose’s eyes went wide with surprise, “But I thought your ship wasn’t ready.”

The Doctor held out his hand and warmly announced, “For this, she can make an exception.” He held her eyes, and her defences fully slipped away. As Rose secured her fingers around his, he cheekily added, “If it keeps your Mother’s hands away from my now fantastic face, it’s of vital importance.”

A laugh escaped her at his words. As they walked among the dissipating crowd, the Doctor was glad Rose was feeling better within herself. It was the company, not the activity that made an occasion. When the TARDIS was well enough, he’d take them somewhere to build up their own traditions. Maybe they could catch a fireworks display at the fifteenth New York.

~~~~~


End file.
